


Of Forts and Fiction

by evienne



Category: Newsies (1992)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurricanes & Typhoons, Pillow & Blanket Forts, but not, how blink lost his eye
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-24
Updated: 2014-03-24
Packaged: 2018-01-16 19:11:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1358692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evienne/pseuds/evienne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which a hurricane causes the Lodging House to accidentally host a slumber party.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Forts and Fiction

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Set during the Galveston Hurricane of 1900, so mentions of hurricane-related deaths. Mild Newsies-level language. And somewhere in the middle there is my ridiculous attempt at a horror story. Heh.
> 
> [Not mine, not making any money. Gen.]

“I think it’s died down a bit,” David said hopefully. “Maybe Les and I could head home.”

Jack pushed himself up on an elbow and glanced down at where David was pressed up against the window. Hopeful was the word for it: the sky was still black, and the pair of trees he glimpsed from this angle were almost bending horizontal. “Not a chance,” Jack told him, raising his voice a little to carry over the sound of the screeching wind. David looked put out, but he had to know that he wasn’t speaking sense. “Unless you’s keen to become tomorrow’s headline?”

“Mama will be worrying.”

Jack let his voice dry out. “I’se almost sure she’d rather worry tonight than bury you tomorrow.”

David made a face at him, but didn’t argue any further.

Jack flopped backwards on his bunk and studied the ceiling again. Not even six o’clock. Usually they’d all still be working—this was a good selling hour, with all the businessmen returning from work—but the weather had driven them all indoors just hours after the afternoon pape was released. Nobody had managed to sell much, fewer still had been in any mind to venture even as far as Newspaper Row to trade their unsold papes back to the office. Their dormitory was testament, littered with useless piles of newsprint.

Ordinarily, Jack probably wouldn’t think much of a bit of strong wind like this. Newsies were proud of being able to chance any weather, apt to think themselves invincible besides. But the papes, reporting for days on the hurricane that killed thousands in Texas and faithfully following its destructive course relentlessly northwards, had made them nervous. It was a nervousness now justified—even though by the time it reached New York yesterday evening, the hurricane was thankfully at only a fraction of its first terrible strength, already today the winds had been powerful enough to tear down one of the heavy political banners fastened up around Manhattan and kill a man.

“Unlucky beggar,” Race commented from his bunk, chewing on an unlit cigar with a copy of the _Evening World_ spread out before him. “He was on holiday, it says. Some trip that was.”

“Welcome to New York,” murmured Boots.

It wasn’t so much that a man had died that had rattled them so much (death was a newsie’s bread and butter), but it had happened almost on their doorstep. The fatal banner was one that they all knew well, one that they might pass under every day while hawking, fixed not five hundred yards from the steps of the Lodging House itself. There were any number of similar banners hung all the way up Broadway and Park Row. Once the news of Charles Durfield’s death had broken with the _Evening World_ , the uneasy suspicion that every creak and billow of any other banner meant that it was about to tear free as well had been hard to shift. One by one the newsies had given into prudence—or nerves, and Jack wasn’t willing to allow that the two things might not be the same—and slunk back to the Lodging House to be surrounded by solid walls.

Spirits were not high. The loss of income for a whole evening was one thing, the relentless threatening beat of wind and rain against the corrugated roof another; and all the while the wind shrieked like a dead thing through gaps in the plaster and boarding and set teeth on edge. They were restless. All of them had eaten early out of having nothing to do, and now, sprawled uselessly about the dormitory, had even nothing to occupy themselves with but read their unsold papes and speculate which way the weather would turn.

“Do ya think it’s gonna get any worse?” Tumbler was asking Skittery, evidently doing his best to sound merely curious, but only managing plaintive. Jack looked over to see Les, Ten-Pin and a few of the other younger boys hovering within listening distance, in varying states of concern. “I seen what they’se sayin’ about Texas, how houses got ripped right up outta the ground just like in the wizard story.”

Skittery cuffed his head, gesture halfway between affection and comfort. “We build our houses better here, kiddo,” he said, doing a good impression of somebody who believed what he said. “’Sides, didn’t you read what the weatherman thought? This ain’t no hurricane. It’s just a breeze.”

“Freshest breeze I ever saw,” Race murmured darkly. Tumbler looked apprehensive again. Skittery glared.

“Don’t you worry, Tumbs, we ain’t gonna—” Boots began helpfully, but cut off as the most vicious gust yet whipped up beyond the window. Something outside _cracked_ and then thumped: the dull sound of wood on stone. Everybody, Jack included, sat up.

“What was _that_?”

“Was it the awning?”

“ _Somethin’s_ broke—”

“It’s a tree,” David reported from the window, a note of awe in his otherwise steady voice.

A general scramble for the window followed.

“The whole damn thing’s down—”

“Hardly missed us, _hell_ —”

“Ain’t like it’s that big, wouldn’t have done much.”

“Yeah, but that post right out front’s huge, what if _that_ comes down on us?”

“Shut up, it ain’t gonna—”

“It _could_ —”

“It _won’t_ —”

Excitement was building towards alarm: Jack could hear it rising in the anxious voices, see it in the way the boys were starting to shove each other. He glanced around, found David pushing his way through the thick of the crowd to reach Jack’s bunk.

“It’s not like we can _do_ anything about it, even if it does get worse,” David said, practical despite his evident unease. “And panicking isn’t going to help. How about we just get our minds off it entirely? A game or something. Anything.” 

“I think you’re right,” Jack said, slipping off his bunk and taking a step towards the crowd at the window. “Games, okay, you’s the one with the family—you got any bright—”

“Cowboy?”

Jack turned to face Mush and Blink, whose arms were full of pillows and blankets. For some reason, they were both _grinning_.

“Er—you enjoyin’ the storm?” Jack asked, frowning at them.

“Well,” Mush said, sounding almost offensively chirpy. 

“Not _enjoyin’_ ,” said Blink.

“But since it’s here—”

“And you was after ideas—”

“It’s pretty much perfect weather for it—”

Jack cut them off, holding up a hand. Their cheeriness was infectious, though: he was fighting not to smile back. “Just say it.”  

Mush and Blink grinned even wider and brandished their armfuls of bedding.

“ _Blanket fort_.”

 

* * *

 

Just like pretty much everything else these days, it turned out that getting the boys to build a fort was a lot like getting them to go on strike. Jack’s announcement met first with scepticism—

“We got more important stuff to worry over!”

“You ain’t _serious_ , Jack?”

“How old do you think we _are_?”

Then cautious curiosity—

“You could try movin’ _all_ the bunks if you’s bent on bein’ children.”

“What if you pinned them blankets together?”

“Here, I’ll give you a hand…”

And finally enthusiasm (tempered, as always, with a little mostly-friendly disagreement)—

“Found some more pegs!”

“Where’d we put the sticking plaster?”

“Push up the roof, Race, we ain’t all pocket-sized.”

“Nope, you gotta tie that real tight—”

“Snoddy, you’s askin’ for a mouthful of loose teeth…”

It took them about an hour to completely transform the dormitory. The bunks were dragged from their tidy rows into a rough half-circle, using one of the long walls as the straight edge. Every sheet, blanket, pillow case and spare piece of clothing was pegged, pinned or sticking-plastered together to form one large piece, then draped over the whole of the semicircle to make a roof across the top and just brushing the floor on the outer sides of the bunks. The floorboards were paved for soft sitting with the mattresses from the stripped bunks. Jack, in a rare prudent moment, had banned the bringing of candles and lamps actually within the fort, so the only light came through the gaps between the sheets and through the thin sheets themselves, making the atmosphere inside either spooky or cosy depending on the way you felt about the dark.

“Looks just like a circus,” Les pronounced, surveying the finished fort with pleasure.

“Sure got enough clowns,” Race agreed, shooting a sour look at Snoddy, who only grinned. “Go on, squirt.” He pushed Les through a gap between the bunks and followed him in.

Definitely cosy, Jack decided, once they were all inside, though it was much less cramped than might have been expected. Roomy enough for them all to lie down if they wanted, though they’d probably be right up against each other if everybody tried it. But even though the wind still howled outside with just the same intensity, there was no denying that everybody was already feeling more cheerful. Race produced his cards, Specs rattled dice in the craps cup, Snitch and Itey started folding their leftover papes into hats and boats—all ordinary activities, all more or less what they’d be doing anyway, but there was a lightness in the air now, the kind that hung around children in a playground, and everything felt a lot more like _fun_.  

“Kloppman wants to know if youse is takin’ the place apart board by board,” said a voice from the door just as they’d all settled in, and Jack leaned through a gap to see a crowd of boys from the other dormitories staring in at them with fascinated eyes. “What _is_ you doing?” 

“What’s it look like?” Crutchy asked jauntily, poking his head through a gap of his own and wagging his crutch at the whole structure. “We built ourselves a castle. Ain’t no hurricane or tornady or Wizard of Oz gonna blow this baby down.”

Envious inspiration sparked in the visitors’ faces. They bustled out together. A moment later, Jack could hear the sound of furniture being dragged around from the direction of every dorm in the House. 

“Bet the trustees’ll make a surprise visit tomorrow morning and throw us all out,” Skittery predicted, but even he didn’t sound nearly as morose about it as usual.

Race smacked the back of his head and asked who was in for twenty-one.  

 

* * *

 

“No,” said David flatly when Les pranced up in the middle of the first game (David had only agreed to play after they settled that they weren’t playing for cash) and announced that Snitch and Swifty were going to teach him how to pickpocket.

“Why _can’t_ I?”

“Because it’s—well…” David trailed off with a mortified glance at Snitch and Swifty, plainly unsure of how to explain himself without risking offense. He sent Les a fixed stare instead, clearly communicating that his brother should already _know_. 

“Yeah, why _can’t_ he?” Jack joined in wickedly, ruffling up Les’ hair and mimicking the black betrayed look that David turned on him.

“Don’t you start—”

“You think we’s  _corruptin’_ him?” Snitch asked, looking so sincerely hurt Jack nearly believed him. “That ain’t it at all; we’s  _helpin’_.Ain’t knowin’ how a thing is done the best way to make sure it don’t happen to you?”

David opened and shut his mouth again, obviously searching for the flaw in his logic but not quite finding it.

“Sure is, Snitch,” Jack said brightly, and held out a fist for Snitch and then Les to punch.

David glared.

“How about,” Swifty began in his placating way, shuffling over, “how about I teach you the game my _baba_ taught me and my brothers for when we didn’t see eye-to-eye? Works a treat. If you win, Mouth, Les doesn’t learn. Les wins, then you let us teach him. Fair?”

“Sounds fair to me.”

David kicked Jack. He gave Swifty a wary look. “What’s the game?”

“ _Shoushiling_. Chinese,” he explained to their mystified faces. “It’s really easy, let me show you…”

Les won three games in a row, handily securing his lesson with Swifty and Snitch and sparking off a fanaticism for _shoushiling_ (not that anybody was ever able to pronounce it in a way that didn’t make Swifty snicker) that lasted long beyond that night. He spent most of the rest of the evening trying to steal everybody’s things. 

David rubbed his nose and did his best to look like guilt _wasn’t_ consuming him. 

“It’s okay, Dave,” Jack said, patting his shoulder sympathetically. “We’ll work on your poker face next.”

 

* * *

 

What goes around comes around. David got dealt blackjack four times in the next five games and got a straight flush first up when they changed to poker. Race made him turn up his sleeves, declared it ‘unnatural as hell’ and nearly refused to play anymore.

 

* * *

 

“ _Ask_ him,” hissed Ten-Pin, giggling as he and Tumbler pushed Les forward towards Blink.

“Ask me what?” Blink inquired, turning from his cards goodnaturedly, though Jack noticed he kept checking on where Les’ hands were.

Les put on his best innocent face, the one Jack had made him practice for a week before he was satisfied. “We were just wondering what happened to your eye.”

“Les!”

Blink grinned, unoffended. “Keep your hair on, Davey, s’only natural to be curious.” He looked back at the younger boys. “Yous’ll be disappointed. It ain’t much of a story.”

“Ain’t much of a story?” Specs piped up from the corner where he and Dutchy had been gossiping over dice all evening. Mischief glimmered behind his spectacles, though his face remained solemn. “You’s far too humble, my friend.”

Blink looked confused, but then Dutchy took up the tale, uncurling his long body to face Les, an expression the match of Specs’ on his own face. “It’s only ’cause you’s young that he don’t want to tell you, but _we_ thinks you’s a right to know.”

Specs nodded gravely. “Specially since it might be _your_ eye that he comes after next.”

“ _Who_ ’s comin’ after us?” Ten-Pin demanded with a show of bravado. 

Specs and Dutchy looked at each other for a long moment, as if deliberating whether they were brave enough to tell or not. Then they nodded solemnly and turned back, spectacles glittering with spooky intent in the lamplight. “ _The Corpse That Walks_.”

The younger boys yelped in delighted terror and demanded the whole tale.

It wasn’t long before the whole fort was in rapt attention. Most newsies could spin a good ghost yarn—improving the truth was good for more than just headlines, and they all knew plenty of grisly tales from years of shouting them out—but Specs and Dutchy were specialists. Tonight, with ideal ghostly weather to aid them, they outdid themselves. Every bang or creak became the Corpse’s bloody footstep; every shriek of the wind the terrified screams of his victims; the rain beating down became the splatter of blood as he tore them to pieces. Even Jack, who had heard them at it during many long winter nights, found himself casually shuffling around to set his back against solid wall.

“…so when Blink—just six years old, the Corpse don’t care if you’s a hundred or just a babe—saw him comin’, there weren’t nothin’ he could do. The Corpse tore out his eye first with his bloody fingers, just _so_ —and _oh,_ Blink screamed, you could’ve heard him for miles, ’twould have chilled your heart frozen to hear it—”

“Would it?” Blink murmured, clearly tickled by his new history.

“—he was in such dreadful pain, he thought he was _done_ for—and he would have been, would have ended in shreds of blood and bone in that alley like Maria, only—”

“Only,” said Dutchy, “ _somebody_ was there. Can you guess who?”

They glanced around meaningly to a chorus of shaking heads.

“Oh, all right,” spoke up Crutchy’s reedy voice from the back, breaking the spell. He tapped his bad leg with a totally false self-consciousness. “However did ya figure it out?” 

 

* * *

 

“Good gravy, it’s just a _game_ ,” Race snapped too-loudly. Jack stirred out of half-sleep to see him waving a fist at Skittery, who had his palm out flat and was looking thoroughly dissatisfied. “You’s just sore you lost.”

“I’m not _sore_ ,” Skittery said stubbornly, nothing if not tenacious. “It just don’t make sense. I see that the scissors cuts the paper, and the rock smashes the scissors, but _why_ does paper beat rock?”

Race prodded Swifty with his foot, exasperated. “Swifty, for the _love of Pete_ , explain your stupid shooshoolin to him again.”

Swifty, unruffled, rolled over where he was lying to face them. “I told you. It covers it,” he said, and closed his eyes again.

“Now is you satisfied?” Race demanded.

“It covers it,” Skittery repeated, giving both Race and Swifty a look of disbelief. “Course I’m not satisfied! Why does that work?” 

Eyes still closed, Swifty caught Les’ hand as it crept towards his pocket. Les pouted and retreated. “Take it up with my _baba_. I didn’t make up the rules.”

“But—it _covers_ it. That’s not even the start of a reason!”

“Just go with it, Skittery,” Mush advised, shooting a look at Race.

Jack silently handed David a pillow and took one for himself.

“What’s this for?” David asked him, frowning.

“It’s just that—” Skittery started.

Race looked faintly murderous. “I’se warnin’ you, Skitts—”

“ _It covers it_ ,” Skittery burst out incredulously, unable to help himself.

Race, driven past the point of endurance, made a strangled sound and smashed a cushion over Skittery’s head.   

“That,” said Jack, rearing to his feet as the fort went to war.

 

* * *

_Much later…_

 

Jack wondered, drowsily, if any of the destroyed dormitories in Texas looked worse than theirs. Probably they did, though it was a struggle to imagine _how_.

He was the only one awake, and that only since a moment ago. Outside, the wind still raged, yet the rest of the boys slept with blissful unconcern around him in the wreckage of the fort like it was a lullaby instead. There was Les curled up near Tumbler and Ten-Pin, Boots draped over an upturned chair, Snoddy in the trampled ruins of Race’s cards…

Candlelight flickered: the lights were still burning—they were lucky they hadn’t tipped any of them over in all the scuffling, though Jack remembered Bumlets and Pie Eater setting them close against the walls before things got serious. He really ought to get up and put them out, or maybe—who was closest? David was nearby, maybe he could kick him awake and make _him_ do it…no, that probably wasn’t fair, David was sort of a guest anyway…

There were feet on the steps now, the same that had woken him a moment earlier—the Corpse? Jack thought for a moment, until the sound resolved into Kloppman’s well-known deliberate tread. Kloppman himself appeared in the doorway, a bent figure clothed in a nightshirt. His faded, fond eyes ran over the warzone that had once been his orderly dormitory. Slowly, steps careful and quiet, their lodging master picked his way through the tangle of boys and sheets to each candle and extinguished it.

“Sorry ’bout the mess, Kloppman,” Jack murmured as Kloppman picked up the last candle, not a yard away from where Jack lay.

Kloppman turned, searching for a moment before finding Jack in the pile of boys. One bushy eyebrow went up. “Thought the hurricane had made a personal visit.” He indicated the candle reprovingly. “Were you planning on letting the house burn down?”

Jack smiled sweetly. “Course not. You raised us responsible.”

Kloppman _hrrumph_ ed disbelievingly, but there was affection in it. He straightened out Crutchy’s lumpy blanket with a foot, nudged Itey’s head into a more comfortable angle. “Well. Busy day tomorrow. Fancy I won’t be able to make my morning inspection until lunch.” He fixed Jack with a look full of meaning. “But it’ll be _very thorough_.”

Jack grinned, rolling over. “You got it.”

He was asleep again before Kloppman blew out the candle.

**Author's Note:**

> It’s a lost cause claiming any level of historical authenticity in a piece of ridiculousness like this that lets the boys say things like ‘blanket fort’ and exchange fist bumps several decades too early, but for the curious, I've got some background stuff on the hurricane and RPS and whatever [here](http://evienneb.tumblr.com/post/80514780250/notes-for-of-forts-and-fiction). Thanks for reading!


End file.
